


Artificiality

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenosaga
Genre: Abusive Relationships, F/M, I use the term 'pairing' lightly, Pied Piper - Freeform, Present Tense, Rare Characters, Rare Pairings, Yuriev is still a horrible person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 22:52:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s designed to handle such situations—programmed to perfection in all matters Yuriev may require. Post-Pied Piper. Pre-Trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artificiality

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that woman working for Yuriev in Pied Piper? Zora? Black hair, glasses?  
> No?  
> Okay yeah, not surprising. But my sister really loves her, and speaks of her a lot. She also loves Yuriev. Her ramblings... well, they inspired this. Please be aware that this fic contains a highly abusive and unhealthy relationship, nothing is glorified-- I assure you-- but if you have triggers, please be careful and turn away from this fic if need be.  
> Anyhow, enjoy the fic. This is for you, ma soeur.

It’s not the first time this has happened, and Zora knows she can handle it. She has handled it before, and she can handle it again.

It starts small—Dmitri doesn’t sleep well one night, kept up by god knows what kind of nightmares and hallucinations, and it leaves him a snarling mess, no matter how hard he tries to deny it. She pulls him out of bed, not even bothering to push him into the shower. He stares at her with dead eyes as she selects a suit and shirt from his closet, ignoring his gaze with practiced restraint. She strolls confidently from closet to his presence, and hands him a pair of neatly folded pants, pressing them gently into his hands.

“Dress yourself.” She instructs. He doesn’t reply, but puts on the clothing. She changes too—hurriedly slipping into a skirt and jacket, before taking the dress shirt from the bed and pulling it over Yuriev’s arms.

“You nearly choked me last night,” She begins, refusing to look him in the eye as she buttons up the shirt. “This is the third time this week— by now, you would think that you ought to seek help for these dreams.”

“…I don’t believe a professional could help in a matter like this. You know that. Keep to your own business, Ms. Zora.” He makes a tutting noise, and grabs her hand. “Fetch me a tie, will you.”

She narrows her eyes. The man was insufferable—not just sometimes, but all the time. Yet somehow, she could not quite escape his complexities…his distinctiveness… “Right away.”

The day goes on like normal. Yuriev is most certainly irritable, but he seems to be that way more often than he’s not, and no one is surprised by it. Business is a bit trickier—she must urge him to show some respect to his colleagues, to actually speak to those he claims to be above.

He snaps at her and casts his high-and-mighty gaze upon all those around him, and she knows it’s a blessing for all of them, that he plans to leave this stage so soon. They can try to resist, but the man has too much power here—both in politics, and over his subordinates. She’s lucky though. She’s designed to handle such situations—programmed to perfection in all matters Yuriev may require.

When the sun goes down—that’s when everything becomes difficult. Even for her.

Her hand is pressed against his face, ever so gently, but still just firm enough to force him to look at her.

“I’m here,” She whispers, shoving away blonde locks with her slender—perfectly slender—fingers. He has such wonderful hair. It’s like a mess of gold threads falling from his head in soft, wavy layers, past his ears and to the base of his neck.  She knows it’s all stolen—but this man—this man is fascinating enough to deserve it.

He doesn’t reply. It’s not an unusual response by any means, but the look in his eyes unsettles her.

He smiles: “Yes… yes you are.” He raises a hand and traces her collarbone with the tip of his nail, drawing it out along her cool skin. She wishes she could feel it—as a human might. An organic being. Her heart might be his, but her body could never really be—his fingers fumble with the buttons of her collar, ripping them away one-by-one and she (just this once) curses the fact of her artificiality again and again.

“Zora, Zora dear…” He whispers in her ear.

“Yes…?” Her voice is shaking and she cannot deduce why. This doesn’t feel right.

He nips at her ear and she yelps—then he pulls away and looks her squarely in the eyes for the first time all day. “You mean nothing to me.”

Her jaw trembles at this. “I know.” She’s known. She’s always known, but the words sting nonetheless and she can’t quite—

“You cannot simply ‘be there’ for me, and you are well aware of that,” His words cut into her thoughts, spoken without feeling, as numb and cruel as her own nerveless skin. “I am always alone. Always to be haunted, always without partner or solace…” He shoves her over. She is stronger than him—it should be impossible, but her limbs are unkind and fail her in that moment, and she falls aside like a deadwoman.

Yuriev is on top of her now in a perfect opposite of their position mere moments earlier. Her eyes search him desperately, scanning the room, his face, his body, all for something she can’t seem to find. “I know.” She croaks out again. “But I can try. I can give you… I can give you what I need… I do. I always do—you are… you are interesting to me. I care for you.” The words spill out informally, a contrast to her orderly thoughts, and Yuriev tilts his head as if she has spoken to him in an unknown language. Perhaps that is indeed what he hears.

There is something wild bubbling in his eyes now. The dreams of the night prior—and the nights before that, and the ones even longer past seemed to be rising from his core and pouring out into the open. He is shaking—harder than she’s ever seen him shake before. A shadow then passes over his eyes, and he digs his nails into the cloth of her sleeves, and deeper into the give of the synthetic flesh beneath.

“Dmitri…” Zora raises her free hand to touch his cheek, but he swats it away faster than she can comprehend. In that defining moment, a panic overtakes, and all love and care for the man aside, she deftly kicks him off her chest and rolls from their bed to the ground below.

According to the estimated trajectories, Yuriev should be at the foot of the bed. No—he’s absent, he’s moving already. Zora rises from her militaristic crouch, caution thrown to the wind as her irrational human-emotions flood back into her positronic brain.

“Dmitri!” She calls. A flicker in the corner of her eye catches her attention. “Dmitri!” She takes a step toward him, one, two, three and—

A loud ‘bang’ echoes through the room and she halts entirely. Dmitri is standing there—hair still mussed and shirt still half-unbuttoned (all not unlike her own), with that same wild—terrified—look in his eyes that prompted her to act in the first place.

A gun is in his hand.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” He hisses. Algorithms of how best to disarm the man begin to race before her eyes and her feet shuffle to a more defensive stance.  “I don’t love you, you silly girl, and you know that. Your pity is a mockery to all that I go through. To all I _suffer_ for! _You belittle my fear!”_

Her mind stops. It’s a peculiar feeling, unlike any she’s ever experienced before. The equations disappear, the streams of information and calendars, the schedules and the U.M.N data—they have all stopped. Her mind is disturbingly clear with no thoughts to weigh it down—only emotions. Only wants. Desire. It’s selfish and selfless, beautiful and ugly, and everything she’s ever feared.

She drops her stance. Yuriev watches her in a craze, his grip on the gun tightening, and Zora takes a single step forward.

He fires five bullets—three in the chest, one to her abdomen, and one through her exposed throat.

She doesn’t mind though—it’s what she wants. After all, it’s the best course of action, if it brings Dmitri some relief. If it was in her program, so be it, but as she lies on the ground, her body shutting down for the final time, she firmly chooses to believe it was her own choice, made from own her emotions.

Twisted emotions, but emotions nonetheless.


End file.
